A New Year Surprise
by junejuly15
Summary: This is a little thank-you-sequel for all of you who read and liked my Advent Calendar fic 'A Christmas Kiss'. It's a fluffy one-shot showing John and Sherlock on the following New Year's Eve - A Happy Johnlocky New Year!


**This is a little thank-you-sequel for all of you who read and liked my Advent Calendar fic **_**'A Christmas Kiss'**_**. It's a fluffy one-shot showing John and Sherlock on the following New Year's Eve.**

**Enjoy reading ...**

* * *

**A New Year Surprise**

'Where is it, Sherlock?'

'What?'

'My bloody jumper!'

'Which one of your vast selection of hideous garments might you be referring to? The sandy coloured atrocity, the blueish striped insult or the outrageous jumper you insisted on wearing on Christmas Day thus traumatising me for life?'

'The moss green one, the soft one ... _Jesus_, you bloody well know which one I mean!'

Sherlock leisurely strolled into John's bedroom where John for the past quarter of an hour had been rummaging around in his chest of drawers, followed by all shelves in his wardrobe, topped off by the undignified upturning of the dirty linen basket.

John looked up, a light sheen of sweat gleaming on his forehead. His eyes widened when he took in Sherlock's outfit: His long legs were clad in dark denim - no doubt showing off his lovely backside to the fullest - and he had teamed up the jeans with one of his tight white shirts, the sleeves rolled up. John let his eyes wander along Sherlock's body and yes - he was barefoot.

_Sexy_ - John's libido thought before the irritated and rather furious part of his brain won the upper hand again and he realised that his moss green cashmere jumper, the one he had been frantically looking for, was wound around Sherlock's neck as an impromptu scarf.

'Oh, you mean that one!' Sherlock lazily said and started to unwind it from his neck.

John was on his feet in seconds and grabbed hold of the sleeves of the jumper, not to take it back as his brain told him, but to keep it where it was.

'No!' John said, his tongue wetting his lips. 'You know what? Keep it on. It looks rather fetching.' He smiled, his irritation quickly seeping away, replaced by mounting excitement, and standing on tiptoes he kissed Sherlock's warm lips.

Sherlock's heart skipped a beat when John intensified their kiss after one or two innocent pecks and he could actually feel the heat rising from him. A phenomen always occurring when they kissed or touched. It astonished Sherlock how much he loved this heat and the physical contact, how much he craved it, and he realised there and then that all those little things he did to rile John were largely due to the fact that he loved to fluster him and then kiss an irritated, prickly and warm John.

Thinking about it, Sherlock had to admit that these past first days of their _being together_ had been structured by experiments conducted solely with the aim to find out what would fluster John the most. Jumpers were a soft spot, Sherlock had soon realised, and so the idea of the moss green cashmere jumper scarf had been born. So far it had worked a treat.

Sherlock wrapped his arms tighter around John, pulling him closer and it felt as if the room grew even warmer instantly. It's ever so strange, Sherlock thought, this feeling of heat - _Interesting!_

Without opening his eyes John realised that Sherlock, although physically with him, was distracted and merely going through the motions. Something John could not tolerate.

'Shut off your brain, Sherl ... shut it off now!'

'Yes,' Sherlock murmured obediently and did just that.

* * *

'_Jesus_! Sherlock, get up, we're going to be late!'

John dashed out of the bed, grabbed his clothes from the floor and stormed down the stairs to the bathroom.

'Late for what?' Sherlock murmured quietly to himself.

He closed his eyes and sighed. Of course he knew exactly what they would be late for, he just pretended not to in yet another attempt to fluster John even though he knew he could impossibly have heard him.

Sherlock settled back into the sheets, enjoying the warmth John and their lovemaking had left behind. As he had no intention of getting up in the next twenty minutes, which was the average amount of time John needed to get ready, he relaxed and prepared for the imminent pleasure of an irritated John trying to coax him out of bed.

* * *

'Sherlock, get up! Now! We are bloody late!'

Exactly eighteen minutes later John dashed back into the bedroom, his hair still wet from the shower, his skin rosy and clean, a lemony scent wafting in Sherlock's direction. Sherlock closed his eyes and sniffed.

'You used the vetiver shower gel I bought you.'

'Yes! An admirable deduction indeed, but I would beg you to swing your lovely arse out of the bed, into the shower and then get dressed as quickly as possible!'

'Whatever for?' Sherlock drawled, aiming for the right amount of bored ignorance.

John sighed and wiped his hands over his face in a familiar gesture, the one when his hand covered his eyes for two or three seconds, and one Sherlock was very partial to. When John looked up and spoke, it was slowly as if explaining something to a petulant child.

'It's New Year's Eve, Sherlock, and we promised to meet our friends for a late dinner at Angelo's.'

'Stupid idea! Whose idea was that?'

'Mine, I have to admit,' John pressed out between clenched lips, the irritation mounting. 'But, as you might recall, you agreed and even called it a _splendid occasion_.'

'I most certainly did not! A _splendid occasion_? I would never phrase it like that. Obviously you are confusing me with Mycroft! And why for God's sakes would I agree to go to a dinner? There'll be _people_!'

Sherlock had worked himself up and almost spat out the last word, infusing it with contempt.

John hesitated in his anger and looked at Sherlock, at the deep furrow above his nose, the contempt darkening his expression, and relented. He knew very well that Sherlock hated convivial gatherings, knew that it was painful, physically painful for him to engage in chit-chat and to idly sit around a dinner table for hours. Of course, John knew all that, but he still needed him to come.

'Sherlock,' John knelt down in front of the bed and took Sherlock's hand in his. Looking down, he interwined their fingers, his thumb caressing the soft pale skin. 'I know you hate evenings like that, but I promised we'd both attend and I'd hate to break my word.'

Sherlock swallowed the cutting reply anybody apart from John would have received for such an obvious attempt of emotional blackmail and surprising himself, he simply nodded.

'Give me twenty minutes.'

* * *

John looked up from the paper when Sherlock emerged from his bedroom exactly twenty-one minutes later, looking very dapper in his black suit and a matching dark grey shirt. The pained expression had not left his face, though, and John realised that he would have to keep a close eye on him this evening. He knew from past experience that it was not beyond Sherlock to simply leave the dinner party unnoticed.

John smiled up at him, trying to infuse enough confidence and trust into his smile. 'You look very dashing,' he said and got up.

'And your jumper looks ... nice,' Sherlock reciprocated and waved a finger in the direction of the moss green cashmere jumper, now adorning John's compact frame.

'Thank you. I just take that as a compliment.' John walked over to Sherlock and brushed the one errant curl from his forehead. 'Come on, let's go.'

They decided to walk to Angelo's, a short walk of ten minutes, rather enjoying the hectic bustle of people around them. People who, as Sherlock observed, were very willing to have a blast tonight and to say goodbye to the old year with a bang.

'Look at them, John. They are all so obvious. Focused on the satisfaction of pure physical desires, willing to do what other people think should be done on a night like this. I bet you that a lot of those people would rather be at home and do nothing instead of playing the fool and fulfilling the hedonistic ambitions of our society.'

'Thank you,' John softly said and linked arms with Sherlock.

'What for?' Sherlock asked, slightly puzzled, but he softened his reply with a smile, a genuine one and John's heart skipped a beat.

'For coming with me tonight to help me fulfil hedonistic ambitions.'

Sherlock stopped and turned to John. 'On one condition only. You'll leave with me the moment I can't take it any longer.'

'But we have to ...'

'Please.'

John sighed. This simple dinner with friends proved to be much more complicated than such an occasion warranted, and it irritated him. But then John decided to go by instinct. And this instinct told him he would probably follow wherever Sherlock would lead them. And instinct also told him that Sherlock knew.

'Right, Sherlock. I will.'

* * *

Greg Lestrade hurried into Angelo's twenty minutes late with an excuse about a last-minute case which caused Sherlock to raise an eyebrow and to whisper to John - _Not a case, but a row with the wife, apparently she has rekindled her affair with the PE teacher_ - whereas Mrs Hudson had been already waiting for them. Molly Hooper was sitting across the table, fairly sparkling in a black sequined dress. She occasionally glanced at Sherlock and John who did nothing to hide their new-found ease.

Later, while everybody apart from Sherlock was enjoying their starters, he caught Molly staring, a rather sad expression on her face and he smiled at her, warmly. She smiled back, only with her mouth, though, her lips slightly quivering and Sherlock felt something akin to sympathy for her. He was relieved to see that Mike Stamford engaged her in a conversation and soon she was chatting animatedly with John's old friend, who looked his usual comfy and confident self.

Sherlock himself was slightly more relaxed than he had anticipated, but the feeling of restlessness and the nagging urge to just get up and leave were never far away. He repeatedly glanced at John who was entirely at ease in this setting and chatting with Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. After a moment John noticed that he was being watched and turned to him. He smiled and Sherlock felt his small, warm hand on his thigh, anchoring him, providing enough comfort to stop the constant nervous jiggling of his leg.

John nodded at Sherlock and then silently motioned around their table, at their friends, their animated and glowing faces. A motion intending to tell Sherlock that it was a small gathering indeed, but one entirely consisting of friends and surely one that should set Sherlock at ease. Sherlock understood and nodded. He covered John's hand on his thigh with his own and leaned back in his chair, willing to stand it a bit longer for John's sake.

It turned out to be a lovely evening. Apart from Lestrade who had winked at them and smiled broadly - _I see you've taken my advice to heart, Sherlock_ - nobody had commented on their newfound happiness differently than with congratulations and friendly banter, and as John had rightly assumed, no explanations whatsoever had been necessary.

_They all just accept us_ - _unconditionally_, John had thought, a bit surprised. He would not admit to it loudly, but there had been a nagging feeling of insecurity ever since he had arranged this dinner three days agao. What would their friends and family say? How would they react?

Well, not everybody had made it tonight, there still was his sister Harry who had come down with the flu two days ago. When told, Harry might be less friendly and understanding, John thought, given her thunderous prior meetings with Sherlock.

Obviously there was also Mycroft, who had a right to know, but they had decided to leave this particular conversation entirely to Sherlock who was looking forward to it with a kind of perverse glee and childish anticipation.

But for now, everything was fine.

John's heart filled with joy. It was lovely to be surrounded by caring and understanding people on the last day of this eventful year.

* * *

'Come with me,' Sherlock whispered into John's ear when he came back from a conversation with Angelo.

John frowned and looked up. Without another word Sherlock leaned over him and grabbed his hand thus pulling him to his feet and leaving John no choice but to follow. Only Mrs Hudson noticed and glanced up. Her pretty crinkly face lit up with a smile, and she nodded curtly before she turned her attention back to the others, who were deeply engrossed in a discussion about one of the latest cases they had all worked on together.

None of them noticed them leaving.

'I negotiated payment with Angelo and now we can go home,' Sherlock said by way of explanation as they left the restaurant and rounded the corner, John still busy shrugging into his jacket and winding the scarf around his neck. He stopped in his tracks and tried to read his watch in the dim light of the street lamp.

'It's not even half eleven, Sherlock!' He glanced over his shoulder. 'Maybe we should have stayed unil midnight?'

'No, we should not. That's exactly why we are leaving now!'

Sherlock hurried along the narrow street, inevitably gravitating home towards Baker Street, his great coat billowing out behind him and steam rising in the air when he exhaled. It was still bitingly cold, but no snow in sight.

'Hurry up, John!' he called over his shoulder. 'We need to get home in time.'

'Right, right - I'm coming.'

John for once had difficulties following Sherlock's quick and long strides. He had had a bit of drink, two or three glasses of Angelo's decent red and a tumbler of whisky. He was nowhere near drunk, though. Just a bit slower than usual.

When John arrived at 221B he heard Sherlock's steps hastening up the stairs. Chuckling he followed him inside, carefully closing the main door. Anticipation flowed through him and his skin prickled pleasantly.

Carefully he made his way upstairs and found Sherlock standing at the window, still in his coat, staring into the cold night outside. The room was dark, only the light from the hallway illuminated their living room, lending it a gloomy quality.

John shrugged out of his jacket and joined Sherlock at the window.

'What are you doing?'

'Just ...' Sherlock turned around and shrugged. 'Nothing really. I just ... I ...'

He was stammering and John frowned, unsure what to make of this unusual display of insecurity. Sherlock cleared his throat and placed one hand on John's shoulder, absent-mindedly drawing circles on the soft wool with his thumb.

'I just wanted to make sure that we will be alone now ... and at midnight,' he nodded as if to confirm what he had just said. 'Yes - I could not stand being in one room with all of the others when ... you know,' Sherlock looked at John, seemingly unable to utter complete sentences anymore.

'I see,' John said.

'You do?'

'Of course, I do.' John smiled and leaned closer to kiss him. 'That's fine by me, you know.'

'Good,' Sherlock said and kissed John back, albeit only brief. He shrugged out of his coat, let it fall onto the desk and then picked up his violin from the casing. John realised that he would not get any further explanation just now. He switched on a small lamp on the mantlepiece and the strings of twinkling fairly lights he had decorated their living room with a few days ago, before he sat down in his usual chair.

Expectantly he looked up at Sherlock. And when he was ready and started playing, soft and tender, it was like a revisiting of that moment just a few mornings ago and a rather perfect ending to this last hour of the year. A harmonic closure as well as a new beginning.

John settled comfortably into his chair and closed his eyes ...

... the bells chiming one, two, three, four ... startled John back to wakefulness. He blinked the tiredness away and with the last chime precisely Sherlock stopped playing and placed his violin on the desk next to his coat. John stared at his back, imagining the pale skin underneath the shirt, the narrow hips, the perfect lines. When the silence began to linger Sherlock slowly turned around and looked at John. His face was pale and his expression serious.

'Happy New Year, John' he softly said and held out his hand to him.

John took the proffered warm hand - _Sherlock always had warm hands these days_, John mused - and let himself be pulled up to his feet and into an embrace.

'And a happy New Year to you, Sherlock,' John replied and they kissed, keeping just this side of passionate.

'This is a rather stereotypical ending to a New Year's Eve, isn't it?' Sherlock mumbled against John's lips.

'Stereotypical is fine,' John replied, basking in the closeness and intimacy. 'I rather enjoy stereotypical from time to time.'

Reluctantly Sherlock broke their kiss and briefly nodded as if to confirm a thought. He glanced at John and bit his lip before he said.

'There is something I want to say tonight ... to explain.' He cleared his throat, forcing the words, the sentiment out. 'John, you know very well that I don't need people.'

John tilted his head to the side, his eyebrows raised quizzically. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him, insecurity flickering over his face, but John nodded encouragingly and after a short pause Sherlock continued.

'I always enjoyed being on my own. Quite obviously there never was enough place for two in my world. I am married to my work and I absolutely need to be able to think. Everything apart from my work was a nuisance, a hindrance. And that was fine ... I never needed other people. Never!' Sherlock paused again and then locked eyes with him. 'But I fear that I do need you, John.'

John swallowed drily, his heart clenching almost painfully at this admission.

'That's good,' he said. 'That's very good. Funny thing is, Sherlock, I think I need you too.'

'Good.' Sherlock said and bit his lip again, insecurity still apparent, but John saw that his eyes were twinkling with mischief. 'That's settled, then.'

A typical, dry comment and John smiled. But when Sherlock opened his mouth to elaborate, he interrupted him.

'Stop talking, Sherlock. We've really got better things to do.'

'Clearly!' Sherlock said, as always trying to have the last word.

'Insuffera...' John snorted, but tender and then gradually more and more passionate kisses silenced him effectively.

* * *

When the bells chimed two, the living room in 221B was dark and deserted.

The moonlight shining in through the windows was just powerful enough to dimly illuminate the flat, reflecting from Sherlock's violin on the desk and making the tinsel around the Moose's head glitter. The used tumblers with a rest of whisky gleamed on the kitchen table and in Sherlock's bedroom it showed John and Sherlock, sleeping, safe and sound and embracing in their sleep.

And of course, it might merely be a trick of the light, but it seemed as if Sherlock was smiling.

But then again it might not.

*****The End*****

* * *

**A/N**

And that was a bit more Johnlocky fluff to round off **A Christmas Kiss **:) I hope you liked it.

I wish you all a very happy **New Year** ... and, well, our hiatus is almost over, there will be new Sherlock episodes tomorrow (01/01/14) for some of us, for others a bit later, but I'm sure series 3 will offer us mountains of new material, so many new ideas for new fics and graphics and edits ... I can't wait!

See you!

JJ xx


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